


Talking Heads

by Elfgrandfather



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Conversations, Domestic, Fatherhood, Fisting, Fluff, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Old Men In Love, Yuleporn, Yuletide 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 14:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12936831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather
Summary: A couple of vignettes featuring some characters I've seen less often in DDADDS fics. Featuring: Dadsona and Brian getting rid of pests in the garden! Dadsona and Hugo making a stir-fry and fretting about Ernest! Dadsona and Mat discussing past relationships over coffee!(And trips to the bonezone.)





	1. Take Me to the River

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riverbanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbanks/gifts).



> Hi riverbanks! Happy holidays. Your letter had a bunch of cool prompts and originally I wanted to write a small fic for each Dad, incorporating as many of your likes as I could, but grad school has just eaten up too much of my time so I went with three stories featuring Dads you see less often. The ideas I had in mind for the others seem to have already been dealt with in other fics throughout AO3 anyway, so it's no big loss.
> 
> I wanted to include both sexy elements and found family bits, so I tried to balance the smut with wholesome conversations between Dadsona and his partner/partner's kid(s). This is my first time writing porn for Yuletide, so I'm a little nervous. I hope you'll enjoy this!
> 
> I'm European, so I use British spelling throughout despite trying to use American slang where appropriate. I went to New York once for 4 days when I was 14 and that's the sum total of my real life US experience, so please excuse any weirdness.  
> This is unbeta'ed because it felt a bit unfair to make someone read 10k words with only a week to spare before the deadline, so do let me know if anything egregious stands out. I replayed the game to get the writing, character voices, and backstories right, but I may have slipped up. Gomen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Namesake.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ar2VHW1i2w)

‘Have you ever heard of noodling?’

I stop scratching Maxwell’s belly and blink at Brian from the other side of the Formica kitchen table. He’s filling up two mugs with piping-hot, freshly-brewed coffee. His says ‘#1 Contractor,’ mine says ‘#3 Contractor.’ I don’t know what happened to #2.

Brian sets my mug down in front of me, and I put my palms around it to feel its warmth. Maxwell whines inquisitively, then rolls onto his front and pads out of the kitchen on his little sausage legs. I blow over the surface of my coffee, take a sip, and set the mug down again.

‘Please tell me this isn’t you coming clean about a secret pasta fetish. Not at nine on a Wednesday morning.’

‘You got me. The breakfast invite was just a front. That?’ He nods at the small steel pot bubbling on the stove. ‘Not actually oatmeal. Just the first of many doses of macaroni. We need enough to fill the bathtub.’

‘Then the fun starts.’

We keep our faces perfectly neutral for another three seconds before Brian snorts and we dissolve into undignified chuckles. In the two weeks since Amanda’s party, I’ve discovered that Brian’s surprisingly good at keeping a dumb story going, and we’ve even managed to establish a couple of running jokes already (or, as the Youths would say, IRL Memes). One of these is oblique, PG-13 references to inappropriate uses for food.

Now, _some_ might say this type of humour is a coping mechanism employed by two sexually frustrated adults.

And, well.

…

It’s not like we haven’t tried. One of the perks of living about 150 feet apart is that we’re constantly over at the other’s house, but somehow, it’s never really… happened. Maybe Brian’ll come in covered in dust and sweat and general grime that makes him incomprehensibly hot, but he’ll be so beat from all the, y’know, _work_ he’s been doing at his _job_ that we end up just chastely cuddling with takeout and _Paranormal Ice Road Truckers_.

Or maybe he shows up at my place when he’s got a day off and I’m curled up in the fetal position on the floor in a puddle of my own tears because I’d forgotten I had four deadlines due the following week, so we take Maxwell to the park and Brian cooks me dinner while I dive back into Public Relations Hell.

 _Or_ maybe we’re both free, but so’s Daisy, and the whole process of coming up with and engaging in fun, educational activities for the three of us ends up sidelining any excessively romantic urges.

_OR._

Maybe we’re both free, and Daisy’s at school, and we've got the whole day to ourselves... and Brian’s garden is suddenly under siege by an army of monster slugs and I end up dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn to help him deal with it.

And that’s how we ended up here, drinking coffee and talking about sexy spaghetti.

‘Seriously though,’ Brian says. ‘I was talking to my cousin Dale, from Oklahoma.’

‘I see this information is inescapable.’

The pot on the stove makes an ominous rumbling noise. Brian gets up to tend to it, talking throughout.

‘Basically, noodling’s when you swim ten to twenty feet to the bottom of a lake, stick your fist into a hole in the ground, and hope a forty-pound catfish bites down.’

Satisfied that the oatmeal is cooked through nice and creamy, he spoons generous portions into twin ceramic bowls (patterned with cute dog faces) and tops them with generous drizzles of maple syrup and a scattering of blueberries.

‘You need to do it with a buddy, so he can pull you out if you can’t carry the fish back up to the surface or if there’s an alligator or a snapping turtle in the hole instead.’

Brian sits down and pushes one of the bowls over to me. The blueberries have been laid out in the shape of a smiley face. I watch bubbles form and pop on the surface of the pale beige porridge.

‘Why?’

He shrugs, already halfway into his portion. ‘Redneck nihilism?’

The smiley-blueberries have started sinking into the cereal, and the face now looks more like it’s squinting at me in mild disgust. I spoon a generous helping into my mouth. It’s delicious.

‘Nature is amazing.’

Brian nods.

\---

Nature is not amazing.

I stare at the black spots munching at Brian’s lettuce leaves and burrowing into his shiny heirloom tomatoes. We’ve been spraying the organic pesticide everywhere for the past hour, and so-far it’s had no tangible effect on this garden-slash-Slug Hell.

Brian stands next to me, hands on his hips, frowning into his beard.

‘What if,’ I point at the nearest infested plant, ‘we noodle the slugs?’

‘Bad idea. These guys look ravenous. One false move and you’d come back with a stump.’

‘Horrifying.’

He checks the instructions on his pesticide bottle. It’s a new brand he’s trying out at Daisy’s request, something better for the environment, and its eco-friendly killing ways are still a mystery to him.

‘Says here it could take a day or two to work,’ he says, placing the bottle on the garden table.

‘Willing to risk it?’

‘Well, there’s no way they could do much more damage,’ he sighs and tosses me a small plastic bucket. ‘Let’s finish hosing the place down. If you see a juicy one, save it before you use the product. Slugs make good chub bait.’ He smirks. ‘Something you know a thing or two about, huh?’

It takes me a second to process that, but it clicks when Brian cheerily pats his round belly. I blush.

‘Yes, it’s me. Chub Bait, expert slug hunter.’ I tap my finger against my temple. ‘If you wanna get ‘em, you gotta _think_ like ‘em.’

‘Or you gotta think like the _chub_ so you’re motivated to find the best ones.’

…

Don’t rise to it.

‘If you think you can score better slugs than me, you’re wrong.’

I rose to it.

Brian grins and grabs his own bucket and bottle of pesticide.

‘You’re on.’

\---

I sigh contentedly. The Beer sweats in my hand, and Maxwell’s jumping as high as his stubby little legs will let him to try and lap the water from the bottle’s surface. A nice alcoholic beverage after a morning of manual labour is one of the highlights of Dad life.

As it turns out, the pesticide _did_ work. By the time we’d made the rounds and filled our buckets with new friends, those left behind had started withering and falling off the plants, which means we got to spend a couple of hours doing damage control by digging up lost causes and planting new seeds where seasonally appropriate. Come tomorrow morning, the garden should be totally slug-free.

My skin’s hot from the sun and I’m sweaty and I know I have soil stuck in places soil should never be, but it’s okay because Brian is also hot and sweaty and dirty and he rocks that look way better than I do.

He scratches Max’s head to stop him from jumping more, and clinks his bottle against mine.

‘To a job well done.’

I tip the neck of my Beer towards him in acknowledgement before taking a generous swig, licking my lips to get every last drop. I can’t help being catty and adding:

‘And to a competition won.’

The buckets are in the cooler in the basement with the rest of the fishing stuff, waiting to be used this weekend, and mine has distinctly overslugged Brian’s attempt.

‘True. Turns out being the Chub Bait is the better technique. I defer to your expertise.’

He performs a mock-bow like I’m slug-hunting royalty, always graceful in the face of total, crushing defeat.

Brian puts his bottle down on the coffee table in front of us, knits his hands together, and stretches with a grunt and a few audible cracks before relaxing back against the couch, one arm casually slung behind me. If I turn my head just a little, I can feel the hairy skin of his upper arm against my face, and it’s even more soothing than the drink.

His fingers drum once against my shoulder.

‘What kind of prize does the slug-slayer want?’

‘I don’t do it for the riches, baby. A simple thank-you kiss’s good enough for me.’

He smiles and nuzzles the space under my ear, planting a little kiss against my jaw. His beard tickles my neck, and I angle my head to give him better access. He gets the hint and kisses down my throat three, four times, then pulls me towards him to press his lips against mine and slip his tongue into my mouth. I almost drop my Beer and have to blindly set it down, so I can let my hands run over his broad, muscular back, slipping under his t-shirt while out mouths work against each other.

I’m sore all over from the yard work, but the pain fades and dissipates completely as the embrace deepens, urging me to be pushier and more confident until I have his bulky frame underneath me and I can feel his erection pressing against mine.

That’s when I realise.

I break the kiss and heave myself up on straightened arms to look down at him. His cheeks are almost as red as his hair, the pale freckles dotting his face more visible than ever, and the stray strands of chest hair peeking over the neck of his shirt desperately make me want to see more. I force my face into a sceptical look, which is difficult when his hands are squeezing my ass.

‘Mr Harding. Did you invite me here for more than just pest control?’

‘I plead the fifth,’ Brian says. The hands on my butt roam up to my waistband and slide underneath. ‘But just between you and me, yes. Yes I did.’

As much as both of us want to keep going then and there, we’re distinctly aware of Maxwell’s muffled dog noises in the background and move up to Brian’s bedroom for privacy. The kissing’s even better once the pesky issue of clothes has been addressed. I sigh into his mouth, comfortably settled on top of him – he’s softness over a core of pure muscle – shallowly rolling my hips against his to keep a buzz going without bringing either of us over the edge. I want to make it last as long as I can, to bask in his tenderness and just how fucking _gorgeous_ he is.

I end the kiss with a small bite on his lower lip and start making my way down his body, massaging his pecs so his nipples rub against the roughened palms of my hands, breathing in his scent as I reach his cock and rub my cheek against the side of his shaft. It’s kind of like him, thick with a mop of ginger hair and a vivid pink head, and I’m about to taste it when he squeezes my shoulder.

‘You okay?’ I ask, looking up without moving away.

Brian’s propped up on his elbows to better look at me over his belly. He nods, grinning.

‘Yeah, I’m doing pretty good. Just, uh, it’s been a while and I don’t want to finish before we actually…’

I smile and get up onto my knees, settled between his thighs. Brian’s green eyes shine with lust, and I can’t stop running my hands over his furry thighs, his stomach, dusted here and there with clouds of freckles. My cock throbs at the thought of what’s coming.

‘Yeah, same.’ We haven’t really discussed this, and it’s actually a little hard to tell just from how he acts, so I bite the bullet and ask: ‘Do you want me to fuck you, or…?’

‘I mean, I wouldn’t say no.’ He’s looking a little sheepish himself, and he scratches his cheek nervously. ‘But I, uh. You know when I mentioned noodling, and when you asked if it was a fetish?’

...

And so, that’s how I end up coating my entire hand with a liberal amount of Vaseline and slipping a first finger inside him.

It’s been a while for me too and I’d almost forgotten how warm it is inside someone else. How intimate.

How sexy.

Brian’s breathing gets harder and he lightly jerks himself off as he watches me work. I slip a second finger in with little resistance and watch his hand tighten around his dick. The low moan that rumbles in his throat lets me know I’m on the right track, which is good, because I’m a little overwhelmed that he trusts me enough to ask for _this_ so early on and I don’t want to screw it up, but it’s also hard to spiral into anxiety when your brain’s already filled with thoughts of fucking, so I choose to worry later and add a third finger to the other two.

‘Feels really good,’ he murmurs.

‘Let me know if I’m doing something wrong.’ My voice is tinged more with desire than stress, but Brian notices anyway and gives me a reassuring nod.

‘You’re not. You’re hitting just the right pace,’ a little groan, ‘just the right spots.’

I move inside experimentally, stretching his hole out, twisting my hand palm-up so I can press against the nub of his prostate with my fingertips and watch him arch his back and breathe out a stuttering, throaty sigh. Despite my anxieties, my cock’s _aching_ from the sight and the sensations and I can’t resist using my free hand to tug some relief out of it.

‘Feels like you’re ready.’

‘Feels like I am.’

I pull my fingers out with ease and reapply some Vaseline, though I’ve done a good job prepping him and he’s slippery and clearly gasping for it. I gather my fingers into a point and rest them against his relaxed hole, using my other hand to grasp his cheek and pull it to one side to help my access.

And then I push in.

It’s surprisingly easy and quick. His hole stretches to accommodate my hand, widening around my fingers, and I feel a mixture of awe and mind-numbing horniness when it reaches my knuckles, thinking it can’t possibly let in something that big – and then I slip them inside, and soon, my fist is in his body and I’m thrusting it forward, back, hard and fast. Brian gasps with each movement, his grip faltering on his cock because of the sensory overload, so I let go of my dick to stroke him in time with the rhythm of my thrusts. It’s the most vulnerable anyone’s ever been with me and it’s making me melt from the inside out.

Brian’s hands scramble on the sheets, his jaw drops, and then he’s coming thick and fast onto his stomach, his chest, into my hand. I slow down, let him ride out the orgasm, his ass tightening around my wrist with each spurt, until it’s over and I can carefully take my hand out from inside him.

In the moment, I’d forgotten about my own need, but now Brian’s flopped bonelessly on the bed with come coating his torso and a full-body blush highlighting the freckles all over his pale skin, the ache in my balls comes back with a vengeance and I guide my cock into him, thrusting like a man possessed. He’s loose, of course, but knowing _why_ he is more than makes up for it, and it doesn’t take very long for me to climax deep between his thighs.

I pull out and lean against his bent knee for support, light-headed, taking a minute to catch my breath and come back down to earth. I hear Brian chuckle, and open my eyes to see him smiling at me lovingly.

‘Wanna jump in the shower?’

I nod. ‘Will you be okay? Like… walking?’

Brian effortlessly sits up and grabs me in a bear hug. I can still faintly smell the garden on him and the scent is rich and comforting. I put my arms around him, too.

‘It’s not my first time at this rodeo.’ He snorts. ‘The fisting rodeo.’

‘That’s either the worst idea of all time or the best. There’s no in-between.’

‘I know which camp I’m in. Unless I have to ride a horse. As is usual in rodeos.’

He holds me tight, and the afterglow is amazing.

…

But as the seconds pass, I feel a Dad reflex rise up, and it’s a miracle I hold it in as long as I do.

‘So,’ I say, sitting back a little to look Brian square in the eyes. ‘Would you say you know how a puppet feels?’

\---

Brian and I are loafing on the couch watching Meat Hell when Daisy comes home from school. She plops between us and unlaces her shoes. Maxwell bounds up from his little plaid bed and comes to say hello. If his tail was longer than a nubbin, he’d be helicoptering it wildly.

‘How was your day, pumpkin?’ Brian asks, patting her head. She’s wearing a black velvet Alice band to keep her hair out of her face and she looks adorable.

‘Pretty good,’ says Daisy. Now her trainers are on the floor, she can concentrate on the pup, and ducks out from under her Dad’s hand to scratch Max’s belly. ‘We started learning about the Victorians in class today, so they showed us some of the Great Expectations movie. It’s a little different from the book, but I guess they had to cut stuff to save time.’

She’s read Great Expectations? What was I doing at ten years old? I think I had that brief boxing obsessions. I remember putting Cheetos under my top lip to act as a mouth guard and taking a couple of swings at the punching bag my uncle kept from his college days, but that ended up with me somehow giving myself a black eye and choking on cheese dust.

I guess it was a different time.

‘Any homework?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, but I did it on the bus already.’

Brian looks proud. I imagine Daisy hasn’t brought back any unfinished homework in a long time. I look back at her and see that she’s staring at me with a concerned frown.

‘What’s up?’

She points at her face and draws a circle around her mouth.

‘Did you get sunburnt?’

I feel the lower half of my face, and it _is_ a little tender. A quick glance at the hallway mirror confirms my suspicion: a gnarly case of rugburn all around my lips. When I turn back to the couch, Brian’s stifling a grin.

Damn that man and his sexy, sexy beard.

‘Yeah. We were out in the garden nuking slugs all morning. There’s two buckets of extra fatty ones in the basement for us to use as bait. Wanna see?’

Daisy nods vigorously and darts off towards the basement door, puppy in tow.

‘Teaching her the slug-slayer ways, huh?’ says Brian.

I wink at him and head off behind Daisy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry but when i wrote in noodling it became a chekhov's fist situation and i had to include it in the sex scene


	2. Nothing But Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Namesake.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=068AFYvd58E)

The chicken sizzles and browns in the wok. Its juices mix with the garlic and spices I’d cooked up before. It’s starting to smell amazing but I can’t let my guard down.

That’s what it wants me to do.

The food.

Just a moment’s distraction while I check my phone or get a glass of water, and the pan will instantly burst into flames to spite me. I know this. It’s not my first time at the Asian home cooking showdown, and I intend to make this my first win.

For my boys.

It’s been a stressful month at the Vega household for everyone but me, and I’ll be damned if my surprise _Congrats on Finishing Your Exams Ernest/Oh No Your Exam Season Is Not Over Yet But It Will Be Soon Hugo!!_ dinner‘s gonna be ruined by my short attention span.

Not today.

The front door closes and I call without looking away from my task.

‘Ernest?’

‘Hugo.’

Behind me, I hear the shuffling steps of a very tired teacher come to halt as he enters the kitchen. There’s a pause.

‘That smells _amazing_.’

‘Right?!’ I shout a little too loud. Indoor voice. ‘I mean, it’s okay, just a lil’ somethin’ I’m throwing together to encourage my boyfriend and my stepson. Nothing special. All in a day’s work.’

Hugo leans against the counter near the stove, which brings him into my field of vision. His eyes are a little red from hours of marking, tutoring, and invigilating; there are two tiny oval bruises on the bridge of his nose where his glasses have been resting for way too long; the bags under his eyes make him look five, seven years older than he actually is.

And he’s still the most handsome guy I know.

Amused, he eyes up first the wok, then me.

‘Babe, you think s’mores are an acceptable breakfast food. I love you, and I can’t wait to try this, but… it’s definitely unusual.’

‘I mean, I’ll take a backhanded compliment over none at all, but yeesh. And I'll have you know s’mores are a fine breakfast. They cover all the food groups. Carbs in the cracker, fats in the chocolate, gelatin in the marshmallow to cover the protein stuff.’

‘And the fruits and vegetables?’

‘Sugar is a vegetable, right? It comes from reeds and stuff. It’s basically like bamboo shoots. Speaking of which.’

I quickly grab the board of chopped-up bamboo and scrape it off into the stir-fry. The sizzling intensifies for a couple of seconds, spitting and hissing as the water in the shoots hits the hot pan, then dies back down into a sustained fizz. It’s really coming together. All I need to do is watch the rice and we’ll be in business. I look over at Hugo triumphantly and I’m rewarded with a little kiss as he walks over to the kitchen table to take a load off.

‘I’m not going to argue with your logic when you’re being a sweetheart.’

‘You deserve it! I feel terrible. I work from home four days a week while you and Ernest have to go to _school_ every weekday. _High school._ ’ I pause for dramatic effect, glowering, then sprinkle some more soy sauce into the wok. ‘And actually, where’s The Boy? If he needs to microwave his portion, I can’t guarantee the same taste sensation that’s sweeping the nation.’

Hugo sighs, and his frustration is audible in that one short breath.

‘He’s celebrating with his friends – most of whom have _not_ finished their exams yet – but I know he’s been working hard, so I told him to go have fun. If I’d known you were doing this, I would’ve told him to come home. He’ll be kicking himself when he finds out he’s missing this feast.’

‘Hm.’

I lift the pan off the flame and turn down the heat everywhere except on the bubbling pot of rice, which still needs a few minutes. The chicken looks tender and awesome, the vegetables are shiny and crisp, the sauce that’s collected at the bottom of the wok is thick and wonderful. It’s my finest work yet.

But the disappointment is hard to hide.

‘Everything okay?’ Hugo asks.

I don’t want to complicate his day any more, but.

I turn towards him and pick at a stain on my jeans. There’s no way to not make it sound pathetic. So I go for it.

‘Do you… think Ernest likes me?’

Hugo blinks. I clear my throat and put my knuckles on my hips in what I’ve learned is called a Power Pose. According to the website Amanda’s sent me, it’s supposed to make me feel confident and strong.

‘I mean, uh. It’s just that it’s been almost seven months and I kinda feel like he doesn’t… want to be around me? The few times I’ve picked him up from somewhere, he looked mortified. When I ask him if he wants to watch a movie or talk about his day, he rolls his eyes. I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong. I thought the meal might, uh.’

There’s concern in his features and I feel my face flush. Oh no.

‘I’m not saying he’s not here now because he thinks I'm lame, since it’s a surprise dinner so of course he couldn’t have known about it, unless he’s psychic and if he is he definitely doesn’t need to pass his exams. A sulky teenage telepath would not be hurting for work. Haha.’

I’ve made it real awkward.

‘Well. Time to get back to rice-watchin’.’

But before I can do that, Hugo’s stood up and taken my hands in his, and he’s looking at me with those incredibly tender, incredibly fiery charcoal eyes.

‘I didn’t know you were worried about this.’ He leans his forehead against mine, and our noses touch in a little Eskimo kiss. ‘I wish you’d told me earlier.’

‘It hasn’t been on my mind that long,’ I say hastily, ‘’cause I figured he was just taking his time warming up to me. And then exam season started and I didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it, though I guess it’s a little late now. But I figured, if he’s said something to you about me –‘

‘I wish he would,’ Hugo sighs. He moves back and squeezes my fingers in his. ‘Not just about you. I wish he’d _talk_ to me more. People keep saying he’s just being a teenager, and I know he’s not being bullied because I keep an eye on him at school, but it seems so… virulent, somehow. I can’t imagine Amanda was like that. Sometimes, I wonder if the divorce might have… but then, all the Dads in the cul-de-sac have dealt with the same or worse, and their relationships with their kids aren’t nearly as fraught.’

‘Hey. I know things were different back in the day, but honestly? I wish my parents had divorced. I remember being Ernest’s age and having to sit at the table every night with no one saying a word except ‘pass the potatoes,’ ‘thanks Mom,’ ‘thank you, Sir.’ Eighteen years of silent dinners. We weren’t _scared_ of him, but I know Mom and me felt like we were always disappointing him. You pick up on that tension, when you’re a kid. I’m sure you know that. Staying together wouldn’t have helped him. I promise.’

‘I suppose you’re –‘

Of course, that’s when the pot of rice decides to boil over, sending Hugo and I two feet in the air when the starchy water hits the stovetop in a terrifying series of hisses and pops. We curse in a most un-Dadly fashion while we scramble to salvage it, Hugo turning off the heat while I whip a towel around the pot’s handles and carry it over to the sink.

Scooping the contents into a bowl reveals a thick disc of burnt rice semi-permanently stuck to the bottom of the pot, along with some soggy rice topsoil that barely allows for two portions, let alone the leftovers I’d anticipated. We stare at the little pile of rice, and I fish my phone out of my pocket.

‘Siri, why does God allow suffering?’

Hugo picks the phone out of my hand before Siri can respond and places it face-down on the table.

‘It looks great,’ he says, and he’s using his Encouraging Teacher Voice so it _sounds_ true. ‘Spoon some of the chicken onto it and Gordon Ramsay would weep.’

‘I mean, I agree, but for different reasons.’

Hugo uses his Teacher Look now. It’s super effective.

‘You plate up two portions, I’ll go set the table, and then we eat like kings. Alright?’

Even in my relative despair, I can appreciate the hotness radiating off his authoritative commands, and a smile sneaks its way onto my face. I nod.

\---

When I wake up, Hugo’s got a muscular arm slung over me and is cuddled up so close I can feel his moustache tickle my cheek with each exhale. I turn to look at him. He’s sleeping like a dead man, belly down like he collapsed as soon as he got in the vicinity of the bed.

Which isn’t too far from the truth.

As usual, Hugo had been right. The meal turned out more than fine, and in an impressive show of self-control, we put aside a generous portion for Ernest (with an admittedly skewed meat/rice ratio). I made sure he’d know about it by leaving a trail of post-its leading from the front door to the fridge, mainly labelled GAMER FUEL.

Hugo and I watched some _Bigger Brother: Deck Build Bonanza_ in a blissed out food coma, until the hand he’d left on my knee slowly started migrating north. A couple of kisses later, we were in the bedroom, and I left him for just three minutes so I could quickly brush and floss, dab on a little of his favorite aftershave, and strut back in with the confidence of a successful newbie chef who’s about to get it on with his sexy teacher boyfriend.

In my 180 second absence, Hugo managed to fall into a deep sleep, face crushed into the pillow and hair still pulled into a messy bun.

I would’ve been disappointed, but it was cute as hell and he definitely deserved that rest.

He’d had the energy and/or presence of mind to take off everything except his briefs, so I carefully tugged the elastic out of his hair to set it free, pulled the covers over him, and snuggled up close. Hugo immediately pulled me to him, gave me a sleepy kiss, and mumbled something like ‘thanks I’m love you’ before tumbling back into slumber. I hugged him back, told him ‘I’m love you too,’ and let myself doze off.

So after that lovely, romantic evening, why am I wide awake at three in the goddamn morning?

I defiantly shut my eyes, but they keep drifting back open. I shift onto my side, letting Hugo spoon me, and take my phone off the bedside table to check the news, reply to a couple of emails, and feed my Neko Atsumes. That kills about an hour, and I’m still just as alert.

I extricate myself from Hugo’s grasp with a sulky grunt, step into the dog-shaped slippers Amanda got me for Christmas two years ago, and head to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk.

Wiggling my toes in the puppy slippers while I wait for the microwave to do its thing, I remember all the times I had to do this same thing for Manda. Sitting beside her on her bed, helping her drink from the big mug she couldn’t even close her hands around, running my fingers through her hair. After Alex died, it became an almost-nightly routine. She’d wake up crying and I’d warm up some milk and stay with her until her breathing went back to normal, then slowed to the steady rhythm of deep sleep. It’s part of why I made the jump to working from home, all those years ago. She needed me.

It's nostalgic.

Of course, I don’t miss the grief, the anger, the fear of the time after Alex passed. But I miss being wanted like that. Being relied on.

I miss my baby.

The microwave beeps. I decide to watch a little TV while I drink, so I’m not sitting alone in the kitchen like a weirdo. I walk to the living room, wondering when the earliest acceptable time to Skype Amanda would be, when I notice faint noises down the hall. As I round the corner, I find Ernest sitting on the floor, in boxers and his favorite orange hoodie, playing Xbox with his headphones on. There’s a plate on the floor next to him, covered in soy sauce stains and drying grains of rice, an empty bottle of Coke, and a half eaten, half melted tub of ice cream.

Without thinking, I say, ‘Hey Ernest,’ and he jolts like a cat who’s seen a cucumber before lowering his headphones and glaring at me.

‘You scared the hell outta me, man!’

‘Sorry, bud, didn’t mean to.’

I stand by the door and we look at each other in silence. Ernest turns back to the television, but keeps his headphones off, which I, in true Dad-fashion, take as an invitation to keep chatting.

‘Late night?’

‘Yeah, just been out with some friends.’

‘Last day of exams, right? Well done. You do anything fun?’

‘Eh. We got pizza from Thirsty’s and then we hung out at Snake’s house.’

‘You have a friend called Snake?’

I’ve been walking over to him and I’m close enough now that I can see him roll his eyes.

‘His _real_ name’s Dave, but he makes us call him Snake. He’s tryin’a be a real badass.’ On the screen, uncannily robotic but realistic video game people are blown to red chunks by Ernest’s character. He picks up their dropped loot. ‘It’s funny.’

‘I like that his interpretation of badass comes straight out of an 80s prison flick. And The Simpsons.’

‘Yeah.’

An awkward silence ensues, so I go sit on the couch behind him and rest my chin in my hand, sipping my milk. Ernest’s being his usual self, clearly, but he seems a little tense. Either he really doesn’t have anything else to say about the hilariously-named Snake (doubtful), or he’s got something on his mind.

‘How far does his image go? Does he _have_ a snake he can take scary selfies with?’

‘He’s got a cat. Truffles.’

‘So call him Truffles. Or Catto.’

I hear something that sounds suspiciously like a snort come from him.

‘I can’t do that,’ he says, but it’s mild, conversational.

‘Why not? Does he have the best games? A well-stocked drinks cabinet?’

‘Something like that.’

‘An older brother who knows the best dealers?’

His character stop running on the screen for a split second, then goes off again. Ernest doesn’t turn around to look at me. If a video game avatar could feign nonchalance, that’s what I’d be seeing now. I put my empty glass down on the floor and sit back with my arms crossed.

‘A friend who hogs his weed isn’t a true friend at all.’

Ernest definitely looks at me now, blinking wildly.

‘How’d you –‘

‘I was young, too. Once. Also, I have a nose and I could smell it from across the house.’

‘Oh. Right. Hugo usually, uh, freaks out a little.’

‘It’s not my place. I know your Dad's already talked to you, so I'm not gonna give you a big D.A.R.E speech. As long as you're smart about it.'

‘Uh-huh.’ He bites the corner of his bottom lip. ‘Thanks.’

I don’t want to belabour the point and lose my new Cool Dad cred, so I nod at the plate on the floor. ‘I see you found the meal.’

‘Yeah. Hugo did good.’

‘I made it, actually.’

The incredulity is so transparent that I feel a little insulted.

‘I mean, I raised a kid on my own. I know a couple of tricks. Not… many, granted, but enough for a celebratory meal.’

‘Well. Whatever. Hit the spot.’ Ernest pats his stomach. ‘I was starving.’

‘Even after the pizza at Truffles’?’

‘Ah, I didn’t stay for that.’

Huh.

‘How come? Snake keeping the pot _and_ the grub to himself?’

‘Nah, he was just being an asshole.’

‘Wouldn’t have guessed. He sounds like a cool dude.’

Ernest idly pulls his hood up over his head and tugs it down until it covers his eyes, pulls so it’s taut over his forehead, then lets it flap up. There’s something he wants to say, I think, but I don’t know if our relationship is at a point where –

‘He was just talking shit!’ Ernest blurts out. ‘Like, he’s gonna graduate in a couple months, right, and he was running his mouth about all the teachers and that’s normal, right, everybody does it, but he gets to Hugo and he kinda looks at me and starts saying all this personal stuff, tryn’a get under my skin, and –‘ he groans and presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, and it’s like I can _see_ the embarrassment radiate off him. ‘And I was brushing it off like whatever, not worth it, I just wanna have a good night, but Lucien was there too and he told Snake to stop being a dick. So Snake starts making fun of Lucien’s Dad and of course I gotta stick up for him now, ‘cause bros, and then he…’

A pause. He huffs, drops his hands off his face, strokes the fluffy hairs growing on his chin, and continues to not quite meet my eyes.

‘He calls us and our Dads a bunch of faggots. So, of course, I jump on him, and he’s so shocked I even got a couple good ones on him too!’ Ernest flashes me his knuckles, which I now notice are bruised deep purple and red. ‘And I thought people were gonna help out, ‘cause it was a fucking shitty thing to say, but nobody did. They were just standing around lookin’ at their phones and stuff. Lucien started to pull on my sleeve to get me to go, and Snake started getting up, and he’s pretty much as big as me and Luce combined, so yeah, we bailed. And I smoked a shitty bowl in Lucien’s garden and then I came here. So yeah. I was hungry, I guess. And then you showed up.’

I stare at him, dumbfounded. A) it’s the most I think he’s ever said to me in one go, and B), every bone in my body is urging me to scold him, but instead, I hear myself say:

‘I hope you know how conflicted my Dad instincts are right now.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘What?’

‘Okay. Fighting someone? Bad move. Fighting someone twice your size? Double bad move. 99% of me wants to tell you not to throw the first punch, that answering violence with violence is always bad, all the usual sensible, _correct_ stuff. But the last 1%? Is trumping all of that and wants me to tell you I’m proud you stood up to that jackass.’

I hold up my hand.

‘And it wants me to give you a high-five.’

Ernest opens his mouth, closes it, frowns, and peers at my hand like I’m pranking him. My weak Dad arm is starting to feel heavy.

‘Come on, buddy. Don’t leave me hanging.’

To my relief, Ernest’s palm meets mine with a respectable clap, and he can’t hide his smile. He looks more like he did at Amanda’s party, when he told me he was glad I make his father happy. It’s nice.

I stand up and pick the ice-cream tub and the empty Coke bottle up off the ground.

‘I’ll get you a refill. And I think I’ll finish the ice-cream. You mind if I sit and watch you play some more?’

‘Eeeh.’ Ernest shrugs. ‘I was getting kinda bored of it. Could go for a movie, though. Maybe.’

‘Cool. Find us a good romcom on Netflix?’

‘Way ahead of you, old man.’

And I see that, indeed, Ernest’s queue is made up almost exclusively of pages on pages of romantic movies with varying degrees of comedic content. I give a thumbs-up from the door to the hallway.

I think me and the kid are alright.


	3. Burning Down the House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Namesake.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u06DpcFXc4U)

‘So am I supposed to call you Dad now?’

I freeze halfway through shaking my wet umbrella out into the bathtub, like a cartoon character caught red-handed. Carmensita’s standing in the hall, just outside the bathroom, in the Pikachu onesie she’d once tried to explain was an ironic, reappropriative reference to some South African rap group. As she talks, she keeps on playing the game on her 3DS like she’s going purely by muscle memory. Her eyes look huge behind her owly glasses and they’re boring straight into my skull.

‘Well. It’d be unconventional.’

I lay the open umbrella in the tub so it can dry off. Mat’s hosting a scratch night at the Coffee Spoon, so I’ve been asked to chill and do a little passive babysitting. I’ve rarely been alone with Carmensita.

She furrows her brow. ‘Because you’re both boys?’

‘I mean, maybe, to some extent. I was thinking more because we’ve only been dating for two months.’

This doesn’t faze her. I flip off the bathroom light and make my way to the kitchen, where I’ve left a shopping bag containing the best microwave lasagne our local bootleg Trader Joe’s has to offer. Carmensita follows me and jumps up to sit on the kitchen counter. She’s growing like a weed and sitting high up like that, we’re basically eye-to-eye.

‘Becoming a Second Dad is a pretty big commitment. Two months isn’t a long time to be dating,’ I clarify.

‘It is, for my Dad.’

That catches me off guard. Mat and I haven’t really talked about past relationships beyond the  basics – honestly, I’m too old to care how many partners someone has had, so it’s just never come up. I know Rosa was Mat’s ‘One,’ for lack of a better word, but I figured someone like him – so cool, so smart, so passionate – would’ve had a couple of longer flings in his time.

The thought process must show on my face, because Carmensita claps her 3DS shut and leans forward a little, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands.

‘You wanna know what his dating life’s been like?’

‘I’m a little curious, I guess. He hasn’t had a lot of other, er… partners?’

Saying the word out loud makes me feel like a cowboy. Or a coke-addled 1980s Wall Street guy with enormous shoulderpads.

Carmensita shakes her head.

‘You’re the first he’s introduced to me. I know he hung out a lot with a couple of girls, these really cool Punk chicks who still show up at the Spoon sometimes, but I think they were just, uh.’ She’s unusually shy, kicking her feet a few times, not looking at me. ‘Y’know. _Special_ friends.’

I blush.

Wanting to diffuse the tension, I poke holes in the lasagnes’ plastic packaging with a fork and shove them into the microwave with a little more clatter than strictly necessary. Thankfully, Carmensita watches me bumble around with a smirk.

‘You’re the first _boy_ friend, though. That I know of, I mean.’

‘Oh.’

No pressure, then.

The lasagnes go round and round in the yellow light of the microwave.

‘And, uh. How does that… make you feel?’

She giggles. ‘Channelling Dr Freud?’ Before I can respond, she continues: ‘Dad’s friends with lots of musicians and artists. He _was_ a musician – still is, kinda. That’s the people I’ve grown up with. Alternative, y’know? I’m not gonna freak out about you two being gay.’

‘Glad things’ve changed since I was your age.’

‘I would’ve been cool no matter what year it was.’

The microwave beeps and Carmensita hops off the counter to extract them, her pointed pink tongue sticking out in anticipation of the molten, cheesy goodness. I smile and pat her head, ruffling Pikachu’s ears.

‘You know it, bub.’

\---

‘She really said that?’

Mat smiles shyly, looking up at me from his position behind the counter. It’s 8AM and we’re in The Coffee Spoon, prepping for opening time. He’s putting a freshly-baked loaf of Right Said Banana Bread in the glass display case, and I’m providing moral support from a beanbag nearby.

‘Yep. She doesn’t mince her words.’

‘Nope. Never does. I hope it wasn’t too much of a heart-attack moment. The whole ‘are you my New Dad’ thing.’

I sink further down into the beanbag in a way I know will kill my back later, hands loosely folded together in my lap. The air is full of delicious sweet smells and the sounds of John Misty’s Pure Comedy softly playing through the café’s loudspeakers. It’s like a little bubble of nirvana in a world bustling with activity and I’m grateful Mat’s sharing it with me.

‘I mean, it was a little scary for a second, but it was kind of sweet? Carmensita’s an awesome kid, but I find it hard to get a read on her, sometimes, so it was nice to get such a, uh, direct question.’

‘Yeah.’

Mat walks around to the front of the counter and peers at his work.

‘Think it looks welcoming and appetizing and all the other stuff generally associated with market appeal?’

‘Dude, I would totally expend a portion of my labor-accrued capital on your small business.’

‘I’m glad I’ve honed the art of consumerist promotion. Coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘I just got a couple packs of the David Lynch blend I’ve been itching to try out. You can tell me if it’s as good as he says.’

‘I do like my bean water with a surrealist twist.’

He circles back around and goes about filling the coffee machine and getting the cups. He moves methodically, but it’s not with the dispassionate air of someone going through the motions. There’s elegance in his movements, something hypnotic about the curves and divots of his strong arms as he expertly crafts a perfect dark brew.

Yeah, I’ve got it bad.

Facing away from me, Mat surprises me by clearing his throat.

‘So… what _do_ you think? About what, uh, what Carmensita. Said. About being… a second. Dad.’

…

‘Well, I –‘ I start, but he interrupts me.

‘No, sorry, it’s way too early to – forget I went there.’

In a flash, he finishes preparing my cup of coffee and puts it down on the low table before me. There’s an oversized caramel and pretzel cookie wedged between the cup and the large saucer, jutting out at a jaunty angle. The coffee is a black mirror and it’s screaming for me to punch its smooth surface with a chunk of sweet, sweet baked goods.

But I brush the thought away to concentrate on Mat. He’s already heading back to continue prepping, so I stand up to catch up with him. I touch the small of his back and tug on the jean material of his jacket to make him pause. He looks at me over his shoulder with a quizzical smile.

‘I – I know it’s early, because it _is_ , we’ve only been together for a few months, but… I’ve known you for over half a year, Mat, and I know I want to commit to you for real. Carmensita too. For a long time, however long you’ll have me. And I know Amanda feels the same way, she’ll tell you as much when she’s here for the holidays. Says your coolness might rub off on me.’

I lick my lips, crack one knuckle against the palm of one hand, then the other, fidgeting to deal with my nerves. Mat’s watching me intently. He nods, encouraging me to continue.

‘I guess I’m just… I don’t want you to get, er… bored with me.’ I continue speaking quickly, cutting him off before he can comment. ‘Not because you’ve done anything to make me think you’re bored, or that you eventually will be, I’m… we’ve talked about Rosa, and I’ve been there with Alex so I know there’s no _competition_ and that’s not what worries me. Or the chill vibes that radiate off you, because I also know it doesn’t come easy and you’re like me and you’re always freaking out inside all the time,’ I chuckle, because it’s true and because I don’t know how I’m going to end my tirade yet.

I’ve started fiddling with the cuticles and dead skin on the sides of my thumbs, so Mat reaches out and gently takes hold of my wrists to stop me from picking more than I usually do. His hands are soft and warm and his calm flows into me like a stream. I find my footing again.

‘It’s gonna sound petty and paranoid no matter how I say it –‘

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Mat’s voice is melodic even in short sentences. ‘Go on.’

‘Okay. Well. I _had_ thought about it a little before Carmensita said anything, but I… she said I’m your first… _boy_ friend?’

It takes a moment to register, then Mat twists his lips to the side, searching for the right response. He swings our joined arms this way and that in thought, which is pretty darn adorable, then nods.

‘I get it.’

‘I’m not saying I don’t trust you –‘

‘No, hey, baby boy. I know what you mean, honestly. When I was on the road to meet Rosa’s family for the first time, I was sweating bullets. She’d never introduced them to any partner who wasn’t Latino, and she was already pregnant. One hell of a first impression.’

He lets go of my arms, goes to pick up my coffee, and places it in my hands. I can feel that it’s cooling down quick and I take a sip while I wait for him to continue. The taste is intense, sharply bitter but with a hint of cocoa as it goes down my throat, and I instantly feel more alert.

‘I feel like I aged 35 years on the trip down, with the anticipation and the terror hole it threw me into. And her folks did side-eye me a little, at first – she was older than me, only a couple years, and it’s like they saw me as just this kids who couldn’t provide for their daughter long-term. But it didn’t take long for us to start relating to each other. I loved her, and so did they, and that’s a pretty strong basis for a friendship. Probably helped that I can keep up a conversation in Spanish. And that I figured out how to fix their oven.’ He’s grinning at the memory, and his smile makes my stomach flip. ‘By the time we were leaving, they were loading up the car with food and presents for us to take home, taking turns shaking my hand and hugging me and telling me to come see them again, visit their relatives all over the States, call them if I ever needed anything. No matter where Carmensita ends up living, I’m pretty sure we only need to give her Abuela a ring and we’ll find an uncle or a friend of the family she can crash with.’

I keep drinking my coffee, and Mat simmers down.

‘Er. A-anyway. The point is that I was nervous about stuff Rosa knew that I didn’t, but it turns out I already had a bunch of skills and experiences that made it easy to connect. You’re my first actual boyfriend, and my first real _partner_ since Rosa died, but I know what it’s like to commit. And I know what it’s like to feel something for a guy.’ He looks a little shy, brushes his dreadlocks over his shoulder. ‘I kissed my fair share of dudes on the road, before I met her. And the reason why I haven’t really hooked up with people since her passing, well, it’s the anxiety. It makes it hard. I don’t want to make it tougher for Carmensita or myself if it doesn’t work out.’

‘And you don’t feel that anxiety about me?’

‘I trust you.’

It’s my turn to get a little shy, but my heart’s hammering so fast it’s like it’s going to burst right out of my chest – and not just because of the coffee.

I put the empty cup on the counter, and turn my attention completely over to Mat. My hands find his face and I pull him close and firmly kiss his full, beautiful lips, desperate to show him that I also trust him and that I _love_ him, though it’s too early to say that, too.

The surprise of the gesture makes him back up against the counter, and I quickly let go.

‘Sorry, uh, is that –‘

But Mat grins naughtily and puts his arms around me to bring me back. I open my mouth when his tongue seeks mine, eager to give in, and we melt into a hot, slick, caffeinated embrace. I’m no spring chicken, but it doesn’t take long for my cock to react to the closeness and the warmth and the overpowering sexiness of Mat moving against me, of his hands holding me tight. His erection is just as obvious as mine and I want nothing more than to rub against him and find release.

But we don’t do that, because The Coffee Spoon’s front is essentially one big window, and alienating the entire neighbourhood by committing indecent acts at 8AM isn’t high on our list of priorities.

That said, I don’t think either of us want to stop, either.

‘Should we…’ I look at the door to the kitchen, pointedly raising my eyebrows. Mat considers it, but shakes his head. His hair is close to my nose and it smells like lavender and beeswax.

‘I don’t think the health department would super love that, but we can make something work.’

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Mat takes my hand and heads straight for the closet near the kitchen. It’s dark, but enough light filters through the cracks around the door that I can see cleaning supplies on the shelves, a few vinyl records in their sleeves, and a bunch of pillows and blankets piled on the floor in one corner.

‘For when it gets cold,’ Mat explains, following my line of sight. ‘People still like to sit outside, and these help.’

‘So they’re not just here for illicit romantic escapes?’

‘Not _just_. They’re multi-purpose.’

He punctuates this with another attack, but I’m ready this time and I push back, exploring his mouth with my tongue while I walk him to the pillows. Mat follows my lead and sinks into their soft surface, tugging me down with him, and then we’re trading long, languorous kisses and intimate caresses like the most stereotypical horny teenagers. I break away from him to chortle.

‘What?’ he asks, slightly breathless.

‘Making out in the supply closet. Brings me back.’

Mat smirks. ‘You were one of the popular kids who actually got a homerun?’

‘Came kind of close, but I protest the ‘popular’ label. The fatal mistake high-school jerks make is that they forget us losers, freaks and geeks aren’t doomed to sexual frustration if we sleep… with _each other_.’

‘Necessity is the mother of invention.’

‘And we did get pretty inventive.’

‘Wanna show me what you picked up?’

In response, I slip my hand down his belly and unbutton his pants, reaching under the elastic of his boxer-briefs to take his cock in my hand. It’s rigid and throbbing between my fingers, and I’m still amazed when I pull it out into the open and look at it – somehow, his dick is so characteristically _Mat_ , refined and effortlessly gorgeous, and it makes my own erection strain against my jeans.

But I’ve been round the block more than once, and I know the anticipation makes it so much better.

So I grip Mat’s beautiful cock, careful to put the right amount of pressure under his cherry-red glans – just like he likes – and I start pumping my fist along his length while I slip my tongue into his mouth. We can still faintly heart Father John Misty playing from the shop’s speakers, and the thin slivers of light shining through the door only highlight Mat’s amazing complexion. We’re breathing hard into each other and the air is filled with his sighs, his gasps, his low little moans. He’s thrusting shallowly into my hand and I’m so close to bursting that I know I have to take it further now or never.

Obviously, without lube, I can’t really fuck him or vice-versa, and though the thought of using Crisco or whatever else did cross my mind, it’s one of those things that sounds good in theory until you’re having to deal with the smell and the gross, greasy feeling even five showers later. I take myself in hand and stroke slowly, deliberately teasing the pre out of my cock and smearing it liberally over the head and the shaft. It’s not difficult to work up a steady trickle, not with Mat watching me, supine on the mess of blankets and pillows. It feels illicit and it’s like I’m a teenager all over again.

‘Can I do it between your thighs?’ I murmur, moving in rhythm so I’m jerking us both off to the same beat.

‘Oh!’ It’s a sound of realisation, but it’s followed by a few moans, too: ‘Oh. _Oh._ _Oh_ …’

Mat sighs with pleasure and nods. He reaches down and palms himself, taking over from me so I can concentrate on getting us ready. I pull his pants and underwear down lower, almost completely off, and lift his shirt to expose his tight stomach, dusted with coils of black hair. He’s wearing a new bleached galaxy ┼ ┼ VꕔCꕔNT VEIL ┼ ┼ shirt courtesy of Pablo, and I don’t think it can actually be washed without the logo fading away completely. I kiss the umber, velvety skin of his belly while I unbutton and pull off my top, nibbling and suckling up to his chest, then his neck, nuzzling against the divot where his jaw meets his throat.

It’s not the most romantic move, but I add some of his precome to mine, work it over my cock, and push it between his thighs. Mat squeezes his legs together, and his taut muscles make every thrust feel almost like I’m actually inside. It’s not the same, of course, but our mouths are together, and I feel his heartbeat near mine as I move against him, skin-to-skin, and his dick is hot and twitching between us, and I’m so close to him that it’s just as good.

I feel young, but I can’t beat the clock, and my orgasm starts building up fast, so I arch my back slightly to create space between us and start working Mat’s cock in earnest, pumping my fist to the rhythm of my hips. His kisses become less focused, he moans into my mouth over and over, and moments later I feel him climax against my belly, his erection throbbing with each rope of come that spurts out. Mat’s taint pulses against my cock, buried between his thighs, and it’s this small affirmation that finally pushes me over the edge until I’m spending myself too, inelegant and desperate and utterly in love.

\---

‘That’s the last of ‘em.’

‘Alright.’

I take the blanket from Mat and toss it on top of the others, then shut the trunk of my car.

It took some arguing, but I convinced him that since I escalated matters to… where they ended up, it was only fair that I be the one to clean up. Anyway, I’m between clients and it’s not like I’m gonna be making progress on my book, so there’s worse ways to spend my day than doing laundry.

‘I’ll come drop everything off at closing time.’ I shift my weight from one foot to the other, and cross my arms over my chest. ‘If you don’t have anything else going on, maybe we can go pick Carmensita up at your place and we can all grab dinner? I’ve been led to believe there’s restaurants other than our usuals and I think we need to investigate.’

Mat beams at me, slings an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me in for a quick peck on the cheek.

‘Us, seeing other restaurants? Will Thirsty’s and Charcutie’s be able to deal with the betrayal?’

‘I think they’ll understand that we gotta spice up the relationship every once in a while.’

He laughs, and the sound is like music to my ears.


End file.
